


Anbide

by IsThereARealLife



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-30 09:52:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11461125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IsThereARealLife/pseuds/IsThereARealLife
Summary: Arthur is dead for a long time. Merlin sits by the lake and waits and waits and waits...





	Anbide

**Author's Note:**

  * For [akadefenders](https://archiveofourown.org/users/akadefenders/gifts).



> spur of the moment, i wrote this entire thing in one night, for and based on the headcanons of the wonderful, if heart-clenching-pain-inducing, [ishita](http://www.akadefender.tumblr.com)
> 
> (title means "Waiting" in Old English)

  
Arthur is gone. Gone. Dead. Deceased. Passed on.

Maybe if Merlin says it enough times, in enough different ways, it will make sense. Or he will accept it. Or something.

Arthur is dead. He’s dead. He’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead—

  


* * *

  


Arthur is dead but Merlin isn’t.

It’s been years and years. Everyone he knew in Camelot is long gone, yet Merlin remains. Unnatural long life, the burden of a warlock.

He walks the lands in pain for the lost friends, the lost life, the lost potential. Everything that could have been, that would have been, if he had been stronger, faster, better. Somehow. He should have been there.

  


* * *

  


Decades turn to centuries turn to millennia. He wanders the world and the world changes around him, slow at first, then as drastically as glass shattering on stone. He returns to the forest, so much smaller now, tamed. The magic here is hidden, but no less powerful. It courses through the trees and the grass and the earth. He can feel it.

He draws it to him at the ruined gates of Camelot, weaving a last spell of protection, of preservation, as a cloak against the changing years to come.

  


* * *

  


He feels the weight of the world and years in his shoulders and eyes and the length of his hair. He has no need for food, nor sleep. This isn’t the life of a warlock. This is a curse. His burden to bear for not fulfilling his destiny. For Arthur not fulfilling his.

He watches and he waits.

  


* * *

  


The forest grows up around him, wilder and denser behind him, until only the birds can reach him. But only behind him. His view toward the lake remains untouched, unimpaired.

He watches and he watches while he slowly forgets the face he’s watching for.

  


* * *

  


He feels the passing of the years like a breath of wind on his face. Barely there. Untouchable. The world dims and brightens and dims and brightens and his breathing slows to match that cosmic rhythm.

He sits by the lake and he waits and he waits.

But for what, he doesn’t know.

  


* * *

  


Arthur wakes on the bottom of a lake. He thinks it’s a lake. It’s wet, but not salty, deep, but calm. He floats for a few moments, disoriented, until he realises he can’t breathe. He thrashes around trying to orient himself, and eventually manages to kick off the lakebed. He breaks the surface and gulps down lungfuls of air. The shore is to his left and he strikes out for it, painfully slowly as the weight of his chainmail and cloak try to drag him back to the depths.

As he approaches the shore, he finally gets his feet under him properly and walks up to the beach. From this distance he can see the true wilderness of the forest, so unlike how he remembers it. Though the growth gives little away on the time that has passed, he can feel in the air and his heart that it has been many years. More like centuries, or perhaps even millennia.

He has almost reached the lake’s edge when he sees the figure, cross legged at the very edge of the trees, almost absorbed into the vines and undergrowth. He sits unmoving, eyes staring but eerily unseeing.

Another step and he is close enough to pick out features and...beneath the grey hair and wrinkles, the face is familiar. _Merlin!_

Merlin is here, ancient but...but is he alive? He’s still here. He...he waited. He waited for Arthur.

Arthur sprints the rest of the way and drops heavily into the dirt. “Merlin. Merlin, it’s me. It’s Arthur. I’m back. Merlin, can you hear me?”

Still, Merlin doesn’t respond.

Arthur shakes him by the shoulder. “Merlin! Please! I’m back. You can’t be gone. You c-can’t.”

He doesn’t know how he can tell, but there’s a shift in the air, then Merlin blinks. “Merlin!” Then he breathes. “You’re alive! Come on, come on.”

Then all at once, Merlin is there, he’s moving, trying to get up, but he’s falling again and Arthur grabs him and holds him close. He feels Merlin’s mouth moving, but no words yet fall.

Arthur holds him as close as he can, with no intention of ever letting go. He finds himself just repeating Merlin’s name like a litany, a prayer, a plea.

“I’m sorry, Merlin. You waited. You waited all these years even though I never gave you anything in return. I’m sorry it took me so long to get back. I’m sorry it took me so long to get here. I love you, Merlin. I love you. I’m here now. I’m here. Just stay with me, Merlin. I’ve got you.”

  


* * *

  


The figure is blurred in his ancient eyes. It speaks, murmurs a name he hasn’t heard in millennia. It should be important but he doesn’t know why. A hand shakes him and he sways, this wooden body that hasn’t moved in countless years. Slowly, slowly, like the turning of a cart wheel through the mud, his body starts to wake up.

The voice is still chattering, pleading, still with names he can’t remember.

As his body wakes, so do his eyes. The mist and dust of centuries wash away and he can see the figure clearly for the first time.

A figure all in red and silver, gleaming, dripping with lake water. A gleaming sword, laced with magic, lies at his feet. There’s a spark.

He blinks.

Arthur.

He breathes once. Then once more.

_Arthur._

_It’s Arthur._

The hole he hadn’t realised was missing from his heart suddenly fills. This is Arthur. How could he have forgotten?

He scrambles, stumbling on his disused legs, desperate. Strong hands grip his arms and draw him close, draw him home.

He tries to call Arthur by name but all that comes out is a dry rasp. He feels and hears Arthur’s voice though, in his hair, by his ear, against his shoulder, whispering, “Merlin. Merlin. Merlin. Merlin. 

I’m sorry. 

I love you.”  


**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!
> 
> drop a kudos or a comment, id love to know what you guys think :)


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